


E lucevan le estelle

by acina_m



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brief Relationship, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Goodbye, Heartbreak, Hurt, Love, Misery, Pain, Sadness, Time - Freeform, big sad, friendships, opera - Freeform, quick relationships, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 15:10:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acina_m/pseuds/acina_m
Summary: “So, you came to forget a lover?” He asked her incredulously, voice hushed down right before Mario began singing on set, the actor’s eyes straight forward into the crowd, gaze piercing, conveying, much like the woman across him.“And you came to seek amusement in life?” She asked back, brows raised, a small snort escaping her.Well, it didn’t seem like he was the only one who was getting to know things about her quickly.





	E lucevan le estelle

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooo, both of the characters might be a bit OOC, but idgaf, and also, this could be fluff, but then again, also nottttt.
> 
> But arghhhh, just read it or something,and please drop your thoughts and reviews, if you have any, and go on if you want to ignore this. But I do apologise to you guys if you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, because I really posted this in a hurry and had no time. 
> 
> Disclaimer: J.K. owns this shite n all, and I'm just playin around.

**_E lucevan le estelle (tosca)_ **

The English translation of  the song _“E lucevan le estelle_ (How the stars seemed to shimmer from Tosca) _”_ has been done by Neil Kurtzman (2010) and has been taken from his online article of the same title, on March 12, 2019.

 ** _Bold Italics_** _-_ Italian

 

 

**_“How the stars used to shine there,  
How sweet the earth smelled,”_ **

The opera house had never been a place of wonder to them, not before each other—not before _now_. Many people walked to and fro, sparkling long dresses and fur coats in tow, like a hazy dream for a December night, for the luxurious and distant who dwelled in high society amusement. The staff in red and gold behaved like soldiers, ready for each beck and call. The people employed here—they were not _lackadaisical_. If anything, pressed into their uniforms were discipline and obedience, and within their tailored suits lied the power of silent observance— _the invisible witnesses_.

Their eyes trailed along sparkling heels and shining leather shoes fresh out of the box of a probably fancy sort, never have been used until the certain occasion called for it. Headlights danced before the pavement to the massive stairs leading upwards into a theatrical affair, bringing to life shimmering dust on the pavement; shining light onto street puddles in the late pour of November’s season of rain. There was a distinct scent to wet asphalt and steaming city lights, but it wasn’t a matter to the city folk who dwelled; for those who bathed in perfumes that kept all scents away. Kept men with bated breath as their noses were clogged with vanilla and jasmine; kept women inhaling as if they’ve never breathed in pine and spice before. _How strange._  

  
**“ _The orchard gate would creak,_  
_And a footstep would lightly crease the sand_ ,”**

But this night was special for those who fancied the classical sort of amusement; for those who could afford tickets to high-society entertainment, filled with skill and creativity that only those with money could see. Some—or maybe most who had come definitely knew how to appreciate this sort of amusement, though it wasn’t exactly a problem if any of them would miss out on  such. But of course, to some, if they had not come— _many things would have not happened at all._ Like perhaps, the minute arrangement of a friend who had to leave because of an emergency, leaving the person to sit all alone.  


“Gin—Ginny! What do you mean? This is the last show for the entire year! It’s Tosca! _Toscaaaa_ ,” Hermione Granger groaned over the phone, her tone playful, though at the same time, full of woe as she held two lonesome tickets in her hand. A few passerby threw curious glances to the curly haired woman, who was clad in a nearly form fitting, maroon dress, with long sleeves and straight neckline. It was quite modest and conservative for the young woman, who held a coat in the crook of her elbow as she pressed her noisy phone to her ear.

“ **Right—right! I know, it’s just—I’m sorry, Mione! As you can hear—** ” there was a crash on the other line. “ **I have my hands quite full with Albus alone after Hannah called in sick today, and the little—little _devil_ —is being such a pain in the— _SON OF A_ —**” Hermione heard the phone being passed to another, and a small sigh escaped her lips, joining the breath of the city.

“Harry? Is that you?” She queried into the phone, already expecting the voice of her best friend. A crackling sigh rumbled through her phone, reminding her of autumn leaves in October, littering the ground as she stepped on each one, a resounding crunch meeting her ears.

“ **Yeah—it’s me. Sorry we can’t join you, Mione, even after all the trouble you’ve gone through for the tickets—and for all the constructive speeches you’ve given us on why we should watch with you** ,” Harry’s dry chuckle met her ears, and Hermione melted at the warmth of his words, the November cold not being a bother anymore. “ **How are you holding up?** ”

“That’s fine, Harry, I understand why you can’t come. Albus has to come first, that small little beast,” Hermione breathed in deeply, her chest seeming to ache just a tiny bit as a flash of short, orange hair surfaced in her mind, burning a small bit of her warm heart. “And you don’t have to worry about me. I-I came here to the opera anyway, just to forget about _that_ ,” she reassured him, though it fell flat in the city air, whisked away in the blowing breeze of passing cars and bustling herds of people. Harry, on the other line, wasn’t convinced by Hermione’s pitiful reassurance, but he convinced himself in her stead anyway. Hermione felt his small smile beyond the screen of her phone.

“ **Well, that’s great, Mione. Don’t let Ron stop you from gaining your happiness back. Love you**.” Without her knowing, a smile had already captured her face, her cheeks becoming full with the happiness that seemed to fill her chocolate eyes, the colour of tree bark and coffee. Something warm stirred in her eyes—ebbing and filling. Not _full_ , but nearly there.

“Love you,” she told him back on the phone, before she kept it in the pocket of her dress, disappearing into the herds of people, just a few steps away from spotlights and stars; to something akin to love, familiar like happiness. Just a seat beyond the 8th row, and closer to a stranger with cobalt eyes, filled with ivory and mystery, and a void where the stars could shine.

**_“She’d come in, fragrant as a flower,  
And she’d fall into my arms.”_ **

He sought his way through the 9th row of the vicinity, as people mingled beneath the copper light of the house, weaving through legions of velvet seats brimming with warm bodies and coats, and expensive designer bags and cases. He felt like an ant, moving through a tunnel made difficult for his height and girth as a man. He counted each seat, and he finally found his, and his annoyance spiked as he found the seat next to him was void of a blonde nitwit of his. _Abraxas was always a late prick when it came to occasions like these. He’d skip pleasantries with well-renowned people and would rather be late for the evening, unlike his brother, Draco_.

Even the two seats on his other side were empty, and Tom would’ve found it quite pleasant for the solitude if only there were less people in the vicinity and if the vicinity weren’t too big. But in an enormous social setting such as this, he found that talking to someone would be far less awkward than peering into the dark curtains of the stage alone. He loved amusement—no matter how tedious and dark.

 He looked to his left, where the two empty seats lay innocently by his side, and he found a woman dressed in maroon making her way to him. Her curls framed her face, and it was distracting, because it cast shadows over her features that he could not see underneath the coppery low-light of the facility. It looked like she had difficulty manoeuvring her way through the long legs of other occupants, and it didn’t take her long to trip and fall.

It didn’t take long for Tom to catch her either, and that action was testament enough into their connected fate. But he had not thought so much about his action at first, and he found her quite troublesome and annoying _because_. She fell on top of him, and he couldn’t help but be smothered in the scent of flowers and vanilla, and— _why, why him of all people?_

He found no meaning in other people, no genuine sense of connection or sentimentality towards them. Tom found everything and anything akin to the word _emotions_ annoying, because he was not one to express such thought, and he believed he would be the last to do so. _Obviously, not because he grew up with no parents to guide him on the way he should handle his actions and emotions. Definitely not because of his circumstances and his inability to seek for help earlier on._

_Definitely not because he feared that death would steal everything away from him in his life, before he could experience such, like his parents and his family. Definitely not._

But the woman in maroon, who blended in with the seats and had eyes that shone like stars—it didn’t take long for him to know about why she came. It didn’t take long for him to know why she sat there, next to him.

“So, you came to forget a lover?” He asked her incredulously, voice hushed down right before Mario began singing on set, the actor’s eyes straight forward into the crowd, gaze piercing, _conveying_ , much like the woman across him.

“And you came to seek amusement in life?” She asked back, brows raised, a small snort escaping her.

 _Well, it didn’t seem like he was the only one who was getting to know things about her quickly_.

 

 _“ **Oh! sweet kisses, oh! lingering caresses,**_  
_**Trembling, I’d slowly uncover her dazzling beauty.”**_  


The opera had become interesting as it progressed, and though they had to maintain silence in between their silent conversations enough to continue watching the story unfold, it wasn’t only the story they were waiting for, but for who would speak first. Who would say this and that. They both waited patiently for the words that lied on each other’s tongue, for whose eyes would seek who first, no matter how much they denied it to themselves.

Suddenly, to Tom, life took a different meaning. It took a different form—something like _Hermione_ was, filled with conviction, contradiction, and it breathed lightly, wheezed in certain particular parts, and maintained a certain warmth that only she could bring. Because she understood _something_ —something that he thought wasn’t there before. And strangely, life was synonymous to the name _Hermione_ , and of course, this totally didn’t make sense, but for him, _it did_. No one could change that for him.

Somewhere, in between the bated breaths of men and women, as _Et lucevan le estelle_ was playing, their fingers intertwined, and uncertainty became their enemy at first, evident in the tremble of their eyes and lips, as for the first time, the opera came to life; something they both longed for came to life, came _to be_. Uncertainty was there, but their fingers still met, and as the people in suits and dresses began with their cheers of “ _Bravo!_ ”, Hermione and Tom’s eyes met, and they never noticed, when a smile had formed on each other’s lips. When the darkness had found its stars, in a loud opera house filled with applause.

And if ever each of them thought that not knowing each other was a reason to separate their hands, they knew it was not, because it was something that they could over come.

But this was something new— _too new_ , as time passed by, and Tosca had come to an end ( _or for a lack of better wording, had met her end_ ), her body heavy on the ground, unmoving and claimed by death. Applause filled the whole house, and it was too soon that the lights replaced the darkness, and for the first time, Tom and Hermione fully noticed each other.

“Well, that was a lovely opera, wasn’t it?” Hermione spoke, her smile capturing her visage, but her eyes were uncertain. Tom looked exactly the same.

Both of their wrists burned with the touch they had both laid, and they felt vulnerable in each other’s sight, as they took in each and every small detail. The suit that Tom wore was slightly rumpled from one, or maybe two hours of moving and adjusting; losing grip of her hands but recapturing its warmth anyway, bathing in it, but never indulging as much as he should.

Tom rose his brows, the ends of his lips unfurling ever so slowly. “Depends on how it was for you. Have you achieved what you had come here to do?”

Hermione chuckled, her eyes meeting his in a piercing gaze. “With you?—of course I have. But have you achieved yours?”

He smirked and squeezed as she accepted his proferred elbow, and somewhere here, Tom realised, emptiness wasn’t the world. It wasn’t the lull of society and the mundane of the planet. He found out it was _him_ all along—the void which resided within himself. And if he looked in the mirror then, to peer back into darkness, then Hermione was the life— _the stars that found its place_.

He just didn’t know if it would last.

 

**_“Now, my dream of love has vanished forever.  
My last hour has flown, and I die, hopeless!”_ **

He found that her dress wasn’t so plain after all ( _of course, when he observed it on the floor_ ), and he found himself mapping freckles on her skin like constellations. She traced the veins on his arms like rivers leaving trails in time, and she stared into his eyes as if they were a bottomless pit. _He stared back_. There was _something_ , in the slight graze of her manicured nails, and in the puffs of her breath on his chest. There was something in the way her eyes took him all in, and the way she held him close as if it were their last ( _even though they just met_ ).

And as they both made something together, he also found out things about himself. In that same bed, he found the way touches could linger like burns on your skin; the way it floated through your head like drifting songs in your reverie, just there. The way it left you searching for its title and its lyrics. He found that when he tried to grapple for words, it was uncomfortable to say them.

“Leaving in the morning,” Tom told her, as he stared into the ceiling, and peered down his body to glimpse at her curly head, laying on his chest. For a moment, Hermione stopped breathing, and he stopped as well, _afraid_ , but he didn’t know of what.

He heard her suck in a breath.

“I see,” she had told him, but she never looked him straight back into the eyes. Tom didn’t want her to, because strangely, he somehow knew what those eyes looked like in that moment. But, as she adjusted her head, her hand came up in the air and stayed there, grappling for something.

“To where?” She asked, voice seeming as if she was drifting off into head space. But Tom knew her that night like he knew himself, and he supposed that she was _not_ drifting into a place of her own, but was becoming more aware of what was to come, so he raised his hand up her arm, grazed her with his fingertips, and held her hand like a lock, both trapped and in place.

“Sweden,” Tom answered simply.

Hermione gladly never asked questions. Tom didn’t want to tell a stranger who he was, afraid that both of them would get hurt. There would be no point in asking for more.

If anything, Tom held her hand tighter, and as if his heart sensed the action, it hurt in his chest all the same. And unfortunately to Tom, it told Hermione more than she was asking for.

So she squeezed his hand back, no matter how small.

_  
**“And never have I loved life more!”**_

That morning was beautiful, but something died in their chests; something small, but significantly there. With a lasting touch akin to love, but _not_ love, and something akin to happiness, but _not_ happiness. Last night’s memories played like a broken record.

Somehow, they loved much more than any other person could in one night, and they lost just as much in the same day. They both knew it wouldn’t have lasted, because what they had was only something that could exist overnight; like fairy tales and old bedtime stories. The moment that they both woke up, they both knew that they’d be strangers again. They both knew they’d never come near to love and happiness like before; to fulfilment and joy. Because somehow, a part of them, never believed in that part called love, but only believed in its probability.

Now, to each other, their last names never existed ( _because they never told each other_ ), but their eyes did, and their bodies, and their souls. Hermione came to forget a lover, _and she had_ , in place of another.

Tom came to chase amusement in his life, just for a bit, and left knowing that _he_ was the one leaving this time.

They left each other’s burning touches in their hearts, and they regretted, never leaving a small half of their own hearts to themselves, when they gave the other another piece of their own. And there wasn’t enough for them all. They were two jaded people, and that day, Tom witnessed life leave him one more time, and Hermione let happiness slip past her once again.

They were miserable and deprived people, and they both have never loved life as much as before after that; never found something else that could fill their nights and mornings with meaningful touches and sincere goodbyes. Now here, they were just two people, who had previously had entirely different goals in mind, but nearly made something so powerful, that it left both of them hurting and scarred.

But, sadly, both of them had already acknowledged that _yes, indeed_ , they _would_ get scarred from just being together, and even apart, it was still the same.

And on, life continued this way.


End file.
